


Sliding-Scale STD Clinic

by Arianne, patrexes



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: After-School Special, Barebacking, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Not underage in-universe (Leveva is 16), Period-Accurate Prophylaxis, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24370990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianne/pseuds/Arianne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: “You may have heard tell of… well. I’m told elsewhere in Eorzea it is called, in fact, ‘the Ishgardian disease’…”
Relationships: Leveva Byrde/Jannequinard de Durendaire, Past Rufin Byrde/Jannequinard de Durendaire
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	Sliding-Scale STD Clinic

**Author's Note:**

> Guard against syphilis! If you have sex relations…
> 
>   1. Use a [linen](https://i.etsystatic.com/5857285/r/il/be4746/1773810398/il_1588xN.1773810398_tqvy.jpg)
>   2. Go to a chirurgeon immediately if possible
> 


“What is that?” Leveva can barely manage the words, choking back laughter as she stares wide-eyed at Jannequinard’s cock in his hand.

He is no larger than most of his kind, and in her Sharlayan schooling Leveva has certainly seen at the very least an _illustration_ of a cock—she may be young, but surely a girl so self-assured as to order him into his own bed would know _something_ of the anatomy involved. This must mean, then, that she refers not to his cock itself but what he has just slipped on over it. And fair enough, Jannequinard thinks, that a virgin would be uninformed in these matters, as embarrassing and even shameful as people often make them out to be. Stigma makes an adequate sex education difficult to find at the best of times, and for many, impossible. “It’s a…” he hesitates, uncertain of the best way to explain it. “Well. A sheath, of sorts.”

“Obviously, but with a _ribbon_?” she presses, tilting her head to remove her earrings in turn—and were he a more foolish man, he might ask what feats of athleticism she intends to perform to make her jewelry a hazard. “Do you also tie it in a little bow?”

“Yes.” He waits patiently for Leveva’s uproarious laughter to curtail, but it doesn’t, even after several long seconds. Loudly, then, to be heard above her: “It’s no use if it doesn’t stay on!”

She regains little enough of her breath, as in the first seconds she had bid Jannequinard cease leaving kisses upon her neck to undress. “And what, pray tell, _is_ its use? I take it not entertainment.” He watches her untie the pocket from her hip and shuck off her trousers before retrieving from them a little velvet case she throws onto the bedsheets—and bending not at the knee but the _hip_ to do so, any question he may have had as to its contents is summarily forgotten.

“No,” he insists, “it is a matter of grave importance—and I do not use the term lightly. You may have heard tell of… well. I’m told elsewhere in Eorzea it is called, in fact, ‘the Ishgardian disease’…”

“What,” says Leveva dubiously. “You mean to say that piece of cloth—”

“Linen.”

“That piece of _linen_ is somehow to aid in the prevention of syphilis?”

“Oh, wonderful,” Jannequinard cries, “you’re already familiar with the concept of venereal disease! Yes, indeed, this _ingenious_ little contraption has been shown in several studies to prevent the spread of that dreadful infection, and when used properly it forestalls conception as well. I always use one.”

Leveva is no longer laughing at him—clearly taking this matter seriously as it ought to be. “Do you really?” she asks, an odd note in her voice, as if she cannot quite believe him.

He raises his arm, bidding her retake her place in his lap and full glad when she does so, soft breasts against his side and one hand—characteristically bold despite her likely inexperience—draped low across his waist. “Do you have such a low opinion of me, my lady, to doubt my word? Why, I would never go without—and should a lady be possessed of such an abundance of caution she would leave naught to chance, I am full glad to kneel before her and—worship at the Fury’s altar, if you catch my meaning.”

Leveva heaves a sigh. “I do. I do catch it, unfortunately. As you apparently do not catch the syph.” She pauses for a moment, slumping back onto the rather generous volume of pillows behind them—and Jannequinard takes a moment to appreciate the casual way she wears her near-nakedness, left only with the smallclothes beneath her trousers and nothing at all beneath her robe. He has always been attracted to nothing more than confidence, and Leveva has that in spades. “Is there some reason you do not employ Esuna?”

“…what?”

Leveva throws back her head, and Jannequinard can hear the light thump as it collides with the headboard. As if speaking to a child, index finger raised and all, she goes, “E-sun-a. The spell that cures all manner of ailments?”

“I,” says Jannequinard. “Well. I. To be frank, I do not employ the spell because I do not know how to cast it.”

“What do you _mean_ , you don’t know how to cast it?”

Jannequinard brings up the hand not encircling her narrow shoulders as if to guard himself not against her gaze—long years has it been since any lady’s eyes falling upon his bare flesh have been cause for him to blush—but the accusation in her tone. “I’ve been focusing on perfecting the basics.”

“The—” Leveva shuts her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, “the basics?”

“Ensuring I keep my focus through Malefic and Benefic casts—every cast, mind you!— _without_ moving too quickly as to disrupt the æther. Drilling myself on the major arcana… and the minor arcana as well, of course! You can’t forget those.”

Leveva casts her eyes up towards the heavens as though searching for the Bole and Ewer past the ceiling beams. “Very well,” she says, defeated. “However, as _I_ know the spell myself, there will be no need to have me through a little linen cap.” And with that she plucks it from his cockhead where it rests yet unsecured, and tosses it into the careless pile he had made of his frock.

“But Lady Leveva! I remind you again, disease is not all that the linen prevents! Should a child be shuffled into the cards… I am long inured to my family’s disdain, but I would not dream of subjecting you to their scorn should I sire a bastard. And with a _foreigner_ at that, why, there’d be no end to—”

“Just stop.” She has clearly lost her patience with him, he can tell as much from her tone—though what he has said to offend her, he is quite unsure. At least whatever he has done is not enough to have her collecting her clothes strewn about his floor, only seek out the velvet case she had earlier retrieved, and in fact lift her hips to wiggle out of her smallclothes. “I have a pessary.”

“...ah. That would suffice, yes.” He has so rarely seen such an item, being available in Ishgard only to a married lady and himself making no habit of seducing women into adultery. It is plain there is no such custom in Sharlayan: the Lady Leveva is no matron, certainly, but he is admittedly relieved that—to watch her reach between her bare thighs with practiced hands to part the lips of her cunt and insert the tool—neither is she a _maiden_.

“It is little wonder you’re a socialite and not a chirurgeon,” Leveva says, with a sigh on her lips he can only assume is fond, for were she not he wouldn’t be hearing it—and nor would she throw one of her thighs across his hips, and allow herself be drawn down that she may take his mouth.

He gasps into the kiss when she takes grasp of his cock as well, his bare flesh hot in the grip of her bare hand. He has been taken in hand few enough times in his life, and not at all in recent years—he finds even the dullest of parties preferable to making playthings of his own idle hands, and beyond that there was only Lord Rufin, on those few occasions Jannequinard needed more than simply his cock… but it’s hardly good form to be thinking of a lady’s own father when having her to bed.

Attempting to banish Lord Rufin’s ghost, Jannequinard reaches between Leveva’s thighs to do the gentlemanly thing. “Allow me,” he murmurs against her lips.

Leveva bats his hand away with the hand that up until now had been wrapped around his cock, snapping, “You don’t know what I like yet,” and though he ought to be mourning that loss, he thinks, he’s attentive enough for only the sharpness of her tone. Or perhaps there’s nothing to mourn after all, because after she smacks him away, she prises apart the lips of her cunt with her fingers and seats herself upon him in a quick motion that knocks the wind out of the both of them.

He knows well enough why she gasps: he too had struggled to bite his tongue when Lord Rufin had him, never with so much as a linen to keep them apart—and it is not ego to say he is considerably larger than Lord Rufin was. But likewise she steals his breath, wet enough to have soaked her smallclothes without his notice, searing heat where every other has been mere warmth.

“Tell me, then,” he begs before he dares move, and if he sounds pathetic to even his own ears then let him, if only he might please her.

At least he can take consolation in the fact her composure is failing as well—she still has not caught her breath, and when she tells him, “Shut up,” her voice is shuddering as much as the thighs which lift her up until only the head of his cock is still inside of her.

“Yes, Lo—Lady Leveva,” and adding at the realization he had again spoken, “I’m sorry.” As usual, he is only making matters worse for himself, and hopes the whine Leveva makes as she spears herself on his cock once more is not irritation at him, or at least not _mostly_ irritation at him. 

“Put your mouth to use,” says Leveva, grabbing him roughly by the hair and pulling him to her breast. 

Jannequinard offers a—silent!—prayer to the Fury as he bows his head and takes her nipple lightly between his teeth. This he knows how to do, and if his various lady friends are to be believed, quite well at that: he follows the lead of her gasps and the pace at which she rides him, and then follows her order as well when she tells him, gasping, to come inside of her.

He has barely a moment to think before she is pushing him back against the pillows and clambering above him, and then he is tasting his own spend on her cunt lips, licking up his mess as she rides his face at as unforgiving a pace as she had ridden his cock until she is soaked with only her own slick and can no longer bear the sensation.

Afterwards, she casts Esuna on them both—a mere precaution, but Jannequinard insists upon the demonstration all the same—and it is, indeed, not that complicated.

·☀·☾·〇·

Leveva removes her pessary in the morning, after Jannequinard has already called a servant to bring them a bottle of wine and a charcuterie board—a fascinating process which only earns him a mostly-fond glare for watching as intently as he does. Drowning in his borrowed shirtsleeves by the time the platter is brought up, Leveva only shocks the footman for that she’s wearing anything at all, and over their breakfast sets in without delay for the day’s mission, as she’s decided it: the Athenæum’s monetary woes, and their continuing lack of solutions therein.

Jannequinard nods along at most of the right moments, if not perhaps all of them, and offers enough mild agreements that _yes, yes, certainly that is a problem we find ourselves facing_ she does not grow angry with him. Truthfully, he hasn’t quite woken up enough for such an important topic as the Athenæum—breakfast conversation, as he sees it, ought to be about something tediously irrelevant, such as politics. But he tries to follow along without losing the thread of the conversation to the length of her bare thigh, the unlaced neckline of his blouse which drapes to nearly expose her breast when she leans across him to pick up a morsel from the plate—how she had tasted last night when he’d licked her clean, and even then she’d sought out kisses before _and_ after she’d cast—

“Oh, that’s it!” he cries, “That’s the key!”

“What is it?” she says when she finishes her bite, brows drawn close.

“That spell of yours, from last night!”

Leveva frowns, tilting her head like a bird and blinking at him slowly. “Esuna?” she says warily.

“Yes! You see, I’ve heard of clinics dedicated to… certain ailments popping up occasionally in the Brume, but I’ve never heard of the like in the Pillars—and if you repeat this I shall fervently deny ever telling you, but I know a good many people, men and women both, of a social standing they could neither be seen in the Brume without fear of accusations of heresy nor who could have the pall of the syph cast upon their character, if you do know what I mean…” He pauses for a necessary breath, though he knows well Leveva is capable of following even the fleetest flights of his fancy. “It would be quite lucrative to hold certain days where they might come and, for a small sum—perhaps some two hundred gil?—receive treatment.”

Leveva is quiet for a long moment, no doubt considering the merits of his groundbreaking proposal, settling in once more to recline at his side and trace idle patterns on his bare skin. “…Janne?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“How much did that wine cost?” she asks, a playful lilt in the question.

Jannequinard checks the bottle, curiously. “Oh, I don’t know. Thirty, perhaps forty thousand gil.”

“And who paid for it?”

“Oh, I did.”

Leveva hums her amusement, and Jannequinard allows a warm smile, for he would not have suspected her a girl so charmed by mundane luxuries. “And where, pray tell, did you get the money for that?”

“My family’s coffers, of course,” he says with a wave of his hand. “They care very little what luxuries I take so long as I keep out of any real trouble.”

“Then will you tell me something?” His eager assent murmured, she goes on, “Why have you not squirreled away what gil your family assumes—correctly—that you spend on wine and women—”

“I have never needed to _buy_ a woman’s company, I assure you! Do you take _Janne_ for _Jean_? —well, I doubt you can hear the difference,” it’s subtle to even his ears, after all, and Leveva has spent mere months in Ishgard, “but it’s no matter. In any case the only name I have any right to which garners attention is Durendaire.”

“Are you quite finished?” Leveva asks after a brief—yet not too brief as to be impolite—pause.

He considers. “Yes. Quite.”

“The money you fritter away on wine and _gifts_ for women,” he nods once, mollified, “would it not, after fifteen years, be enough to simply write the Athenæum a check, curing its monetary ails with a single stroke of your pen?”

She looks up at him expectantly, and Jannequinard goes quite simply blank.

It is an ingenious plan, he would allow, brilliant in its simplicity, and indeed it would work marvelously— _would_ have worked marvelously, had he the thought fifteen or even five years prior. But what fool would Leveva take him for, that it had never once crossed his mind in all his years? That he would bring such shame upon himself and their shared passion, wallowing in luxury while his life’s work—the work for which her father _gave_ his life—withered?

Leveva arches her brow, and Jannequinard knows he must speak.

“…It’s for _public health_ , Leveva,” he hears himself say, and _yes_ , that must be it! “Do you not call yourself a healer? This disease _kills_.”

He could grin, having found the silver lining to the stormcloud he has made for himself—but Leveva collapses back onto the rather lopsided pillows the maids have not yet had the opportunity to fluff, the back of her hand thrown across her forehead and a noise of frustration escaping her lips, and he decides he’d best not.

The clock in the corner ticks. Jannequinard dares a sip of his wine, and his swallow sounds entirely too loud for being contained to his throat. Leveva does not stir. “I think I’m free this coming Wednesday,” she says at last.

“Oh, no. No,” he insists. “Sunday. It must be.”

Leveva lifts her hand from one eye that she might glare at him. “What, after you’re all done begging the Fury for her forgiveness?”

 _Then_ he smiles, oh, he could kiss her—of course Leveva is every bit as sharp as her father, and never fails to divine the leaps of logic which so often earn Jannequinard only mystified stares. “Of course! When better to have your regrets?”

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
